Early Morning at Home
by indigoamethyst
Summary: A series of unrelated ChasexCameron ficlets, set, as the title suggests, in the early morning around the home. [ChasexCameron] [mild adult themes] [set in season three]
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Showering Together  
Episode: Just before "Half-Wit"  
Pairing: ChasexCameron  
Series: Early Mornings at Home**

**A/N: Well, I've been wanting to write a series of unrelated ChasexCameron ficlets since the Big Bang, but never got the inspiration to start them. Then (incidentally, in the shower) this fic idea came to me. And it seemed to be a nice way to start. To me, anyway. Do tell me what you think. I don't know what I think of it.**

_You've been wanting it ever since she turned towards you and you saw her deep, deep eyes.  
You've been imagining it ever since she grasped your hand in hers and you felt your stomach twist pleasurably.  
And just because you've been imagining it doesn't mean you had any idea what it would be like._

_The thing is, you always imagined she'd stay..._

You don't know what time it is but you know it's far too early to be awake. A quick glance at the clock through sleep-befuddled eyes confirms this, and you try to get back to sleep, but you are strangely cold. Dimly, you realise the warm weight that was beside you under the thin sheets has gone, and you give an involuntary shiver.

Sitting up slightly, you can see the faint shape of someone in the dark. You rub your eyes, hard, and everything seems to come into focus. Cameron is standing by your chair, in the act of silently reaching for her shirt. where it was unceremoniously dropped last night. She's getting ready to leave before anything gets too intimate - like breakfast together - which is strangely romantic in an odd sort of way, and you catch a glance of her as she turns slightly towards the gap in the curtains.

God, she's beautiful.

She's standing there in her underwear, her hair cascading wildly over her shoulders, not brushed or dried into submission, her alabaster skin almost seeming to glow in a pearly way in the faint half-light and her blue-green eyes that sometimes seem to shine gold are lost in thought as she faces the moon. No artist could paint a more beautiful picture- innocent, yet twisted in a dark way that seems to suggest more behind the skin. No sculpture could sculpt a better goddess, frozen in time, and you feel slightly dizzy.

You swing your legs out of bed and pull on yesterday's boxers, and walk over to her, wincing- your left leg has gone numb. You wrap your arms around her and give her a quick kiss on the neck. This is where you're meant to be, with her wrapped in your arms in the early morning, her scent penetrating into your skin. You've never thought about her scent before, you think, as you inhale from the place where her hair parts deeply. It's deliciously sweet with a sharp sort of aftertaste and a bit of bite.

"Pineapple," you say out loud, and she turns to face you, a wondering expression on her face, and you think that something awful is going to happen to you if you don't kiss her right now.

So you do.

You don't care if she's using you to get her kicks, you think, as you wrap her in your arms in a way that makes you feel big, and important, and very, very lucky. So she wants no-strings-attached sex. Well, you really don't care why she wants it, as you pretty much proved last year. The thought of it makes you cringe very slightly. She just wants a bit of excitement. Maybe she likes you too, a bit. You conveniently forget that she said you were the one she was least likely to fall in love with. You forget, also, that maybe she's using you to get back at House...

But that's the territory that your thoughts wildly refuse to stray into.

Because, you think, as she kisses back, hard, this is what you do it for. The moment where she relaxes in your grip and presses herself against you, hard, and somehow there's nothing else in the world, nothing at all.

And then her pager goes off, and you curse it as she pulls away.

"Work," she says, sounding surprised and a bit annoyed. "As soon as possible. Both of us," she adds, and you don't bother to check yours when you hear the alarm, but trudge towards the shower so you can freshen up a bit.

The water is almost uncomfortably hot and the fastest it can get- exactly the way you like it, and your skin is tinged pink within moments. Raising your face to the spray, you reach for your shampoo and make a lather in your hands. She thinks it's cute, the way you wash your hair twice a day. In reality, it's your insurance policy- to make sure she never, ever stops playing with it. The way she digs her fingers into your scalp so that it's almost painful... It suddenly occurs to you that the label on the bottle says pineapple. She's even found her way into your shower.

You let out a short bark of laughter. You wish.

For a moment, you imagine her behind you, standing shyly against the wall as you rinse off your hair, laughing for some reason, before pressing herself against your back, so you can feel every contour of her figure.

In the mist, it seems very, very real, and you let yourself dream some more.

And then a small, feminine voice says something about the shower being fricking boiling and you turn around and it is real, and you flick yourself in the eye with shampoo by accident and she comes closer to wash it out for you, saying something about loving the smell of shampoo...

and you feel there are cold tiles against your back and Cameron with her arms around you and everything goes hazy for a while...

_A/N: Click that button there. Juuust there. Submit review. Very good. Now- Go!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Poetry  
Pairing: ChasexCameron  
Series: Early Morning at Home  
Warnings for: Adult themes and a naughy word.  
Disclaimer... which I did not forget to put on the first chapter in any way: I don't own House MD, or Chase, or Cameron. I do, however, own this story and also the poetry featured in it.**

**A/N: Thank you for your lovely, lovely reviews. You really made my day. Leave some more? Oh, and this seems to be a lot of short paragraphs :S Mostly because there's a lot of speech. Well, it didn't look like that in my notebook. -le shrug- **

**If any of you guys have a Livejournal (which you should) please add me. I'm the xarlster, with an underscore between the and xarlster which my computer won't let me do cos it's stoopid.**

"I thought you were asleep," she says, guiltily.

"You're in your nightie, eating dark chocolate and drinking wine, sprawled across my sofa like some kind of fucking Greek goddess," you reason, fairly. "How could I possibly be asleep?"

"I'm sorry," she says, closing the small leather-bound book. It looks like a bible in her fair hands. She leans over to return it to its hiding place, and you daringly let yourself enjoy the view, half wondering, no, half hoping if she is doing that on purpose. Keeping it in her hand, she says softly, "I didn't realise it was private."

"It was inside a pillowcase which was stuffed into a box and tucked under my sofa, behind the drapes," you snap. "Hardly a bloody advertisement."

Is it the soft light or is that hurt in her eyes? You immediately feel guilty, because nobody could stay angry with her for more than forty-five seconds. You know three sides of her, so far- the kind doctor side, the one she displays to the world, the wild angry side that emerges now and again, and this side you've discovered in the half-light- this quiet sensual side, lust veiled thinly with silent beauty. And all of them are as goddamn sexy as each other

"I'm sorry," she offers again, sitting up.

"Don't be," you say, and you mean it. You slide out of bed, pulling on a thin dressing gown and tying it loosely. You walk over to behind the sofa, and she leans her head back to greet you. You place a hand on each side of her face and gently draw your lips to her forehead. Her skin tone almost makes yours look dark, you think, letting a hand slide to her neck and nipping her earlobe gently with your lips, making her issue - perhaps involuntarily - some kind of ragged moan.

Straightening up, letting your hand slide through her hair, you wonder if there's any part of her you don't want to kiss.

"While you're in the kitchen," she says sweetly, holding your gaze, "could you get me a glass of water?"

"I'm not at the kitchen," you laugh.

"No," she says, wickedly, "but you will be once you offer to put back the chocolate."

You pout slightly (because you know she thinks it'd cute) and grab the chocolate, throwing an easy "Read it. Any page," over your shoulder, impulsively. She flips open the book to the centre, and you have time to think. You studied iambic form and sonnets and limericks at school, but they meant nothing to you. But her- she fills you with something else. You lean on the counter, and watch her, the water forgotten.

Loosely, you believe that God created everything. Well, He fucking outdid himself here.

After sleeping on her hair, it goes wild and curly, and cascades over her pearly shoulders. Her slim figure continues through her creamy breasts- you swallow hard, oh god - and her smooth stomach, dipping into her navel and out towards her hips and the curve of her legs. her figure is soft, molten, even, and seems to dance even when she is still.

You guess she has read the small For C printed across the top of the page. "Out loud," you demand. You love her voice, the sweet mixture of honey and gold and dark chocolate. "Go on," you say, smiling encouragingly.

"There's something about falling,  
and the moment you let go,  
and you're tipping in the balance,  
in your ethereal show... Something clicks and then you're flying,  
and it's neither false nor true and I revel in the dreaming,  
now that I'm..." she pauses, "...falling for you..."

You hold your breath. The only thing you can think, stupidly, is that she pronounced ethereal the way you wrote it- slightly warped, to fit the syllable pattern. You wait for her to say something.

"Chase, thats... I can't..."

"Then don't," you say simply, wedging yourself into the gap between her and the sofa, and taking her in your arms. She relaxes after a moment, taking in your warmth. "Come back to bed," you smile, extracting yourself from the tangle of limbs.

"I should go," she says automatically, but you catch her gently.

"I'm sure a bit of rest won't make you fall in love with me" you laugh, with a forced lightness. In your head, the comment was bitter. Or ran more along the lines of hoping that a bit of rest would make her fall in love with you. "'Course, we don't have to rest," you add, and she sighs, shaking her head in a mock-exasperated way.

Five minutes later, you are wonderfully comfortable, with her head in the crook of your neck and one of your arms draped lazily around her. Neither of you move to kiss each other. She doesn't want to, and there's no way you'll spoil it.

"Write me something," she pleads, turning her head up towards you.

"Okay," you say easily. "Well, just off the top of my head... Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art---"

She hits you on the arm and you pause for thought.

"This is for Cameron," you say softly.

"Good start."

"I... I never knew you were so broken,  
missed the sad look in your eyes,  
because for every peal of laughter,  
there's another of the cries.  
I didn't pay enough attention,  
never looked behind the mask,  
Never wondered what had happened,  
or just too afraid to ask."

You play with her hair idly. If you asked, she'd probably say something about Joe. You wonder if that's the truth, though. It's not like you haven't snatched a look at her when she's brooding over a cup of coffee. You wonder who she wants to be lying next to right now, deep down. Joe's or your's? Or House's? She shifts slightly and you turn your thoughts back to poetry.

"But there's moonlight in the darkness,  
yes there's white in the black.  
And you've got to keep on going,  
'cos there's no turning back.  
It's too much for you, you're drowning,  
but the water holds the air,  
and when you think no-one's beside you..."

She's asleep. You let an arm slip down to her waist and push slightly. She rolls over towards, and half on top of you. It's an old trick, but you love it, you think, pulling her close. She hates to snuggle, usually, like you were a few minutes ago. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe she's mellowed. Maybe she cares. You drop a kiss onto her unresisting lips. After all, she'll never know.

".. I'll always be there."

**A/N: Liked it? Hated it? Made you ecstatic? Made you suicidal? Tell me!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Piano  
Pairing: ChasexCameron  
Warnings For: The usual. Actually there's rather more suggestive adult theme but this story'll never go into smut, just... pre-smut and post-smut.  
Disclaimer: Don't own House, MD.**

**A/N: Thank you all so kindly for your reviews. They are really the inspiration that keep me writing this story. There is a definite lack of Cameron in this chapter, hehe. It also ended way differently (and I suspect the whole series will be taking a bit of a twist) than I meant it to, but who am I to argue with my pen?**

**Also, a few bits from the last chapter and rather a lot of this is lifted and adapted from my original writing project, so if you see it around, it's still me. It does make a wonderful way of starting a fic, hehe. (However, the fic is currently a lot longer than the writing, oh dear.) Anyway, like it, hate it, review... even if it's just a :) or a :(. _((and I know you're reading it because I'm watching the Hits number))_**

This arrangement is both beautiful and tragic.

Or perhaps _beautifully tragic_ or _tragically beautiful_, you ponder, slipping into your jeans. You were at her place last night (technically, this night) so, naturally, you slip out around one am. It's like a gothic romance novel, you think, (conveniently forgetting she is very rarely romantic)- the two of you, slipping secret glances at work, even brushing necks with lips as you reach for the coffee, spending nights together and creeping out as the witching hour ends.

Put like that, someone should write it as a classic. Perhaps the reason that nobody has is that there's really nothing romantic about casual sex at all. Except that time she stayed, after the poetry, and you splattered waffle mixture over most of your kitchen and she sighed and made pancakes. That was what you signed up for.

But there's no going back now, because you're hooked.

You're hooked on her smell (not nectarines, you've decided, peach with a hint of lily-of-the-valley) and to the feel of her skin, that's made of the same stuff as expensive silk pillows, and to that swell in the corner of your lips that one can find if one knows exactly where to look -and she always can find it, perhaps because she is looking with her teeth and tongue- and you're hooked on the stuff that makes her her.

Oh, and the shagging.  
That's pretty awesome too.

You finish dressing and wander out of her bedroom. You're in no hurry, you've no place to go, after all. She's sleeping peacefully, and you've never looked round here before. You've only been her twice, and you've been rather preoccupied on the way in both times. It's a spacious place. Her bedroom and bathroom lead off from doors that face into the lounge - slash - kitchen - slash - eatery - slash living room - slash office. With a baby grand piano pushed into the mix- the kind with the odd sound like church bells, that Grandma Jane left to you and you never did give away. You slip a hand under the back of your loose tee shirt and feel some bruises and dents starting to form.

They're not the usual teeth-mraks or scratches (she's pretty wild, when it comes down to it) and you have a strong feeling that the ornamental carvings on the piano played a rather large role in their formation. You keep a hand on the largest bump and just watch the piano.

_"You play?" you ask, surprised, as her hands slip to your waist, surprised.  
She shakes her head and, grinning, shoves you backwards. An ear-splitting chord emerges. You wince slightly and she smiles slightly. "Modern jazz," she whispers, moving a hand down casually to flip the lid shut beneath you, and your pulse races. Evidently, she feels it (perhaps through her own chest) for she gives you a coy look and moves your hands to her back.  
"Bedroom?" you offer sweetly.  
"Why?" she asks, matching your tone with a look that makes you shiver. "I'm perfectly comfortable here..."_

This is where you blush and, grinning goofily, move your hand from the lump and your feet from in front of the piano. You wander round the apartment, checking your clunky wristwatch and knowing she will not wake naturally for at least fifteen minutes. It is strange, you think, as you stuff your hands into your pockets, but you would never guess the Cameron you know from work is the same Cameron who treads barefoot on these wooden floors. She is quieter in a loud kind of way, and darker, and so much sexier. The walls are painted a stylish mocha-chocolate and art adorns them in places where you have to look twice to check they really are there.

Twisting, twining sculpture. The first time you saw them, on your first awkward dinner here, eleven days, six hours after you met her, you saw wood. Two intertwining structures of carved, polished ebony, sitting together.

You blink.

The first is people, locked in an erotic embrace, mouths joined by shining flows of seemingly liquid wood, hands melting together, arms wrapped arounde ach other, heads somehow thrown back. You look along the thin strand of wood connecting it to the next one, unwilling to let yourself linger on the first. The first figure lies on the ground. You don't know how you know it is a figure on the ground, but you do. It is sleeping (dead?) and peaceful. The second is stretching in two different directions- to its lover and to the sky. It is begging to both, and crying massively oversized tears.

Your heart aches badly.

You reach out to the sculpture and touch the dead (sleeping?) lover, and you understand everything perfectly, every emotion and how they all roll together into love. You are still, exactly still, frozen in time. Your eye flicks to the clock and you realise you are cutting it fine. Soon she will wake up, roll over twice, have a glass of water and go back to bed. You head for the door with a last look at the carved weeping man (why is it a man now?) tearing himself between love and perfection. On your way out, you stop to look out of the picture hanging above the door. It is one that forms itself into different shapes the longer you look. "Sunflower," it is labelled, perhaps by the artist, perhaps by Cameron.

You wonder why it is labelled that. You see only a woman you know very well, standing in the rain.

**A/N: Reviews keep this story - and me! - alive. Go on. Click it.**


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